


words can be unwritten

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Past Drug Use, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What, you don’t believe you’re a tiny monkey in my life?”</p><p> </p><p>  <i>In which Grantaire has a lot of tattoos. One of them just happens to belong to his soulmate.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on the soulmate tattoo thing, I am getting it out of my system. Tattoos are representative of the person, not their first words.
> 
> Trigger warnings: past drug abuse, past suicide attempt, addictive personality

Grantaire gets his first tattoo at sixteen, the Chinese characters 香蕉 on his bicep. It looks cool to the white people who can't read it and symbolic of his heritage or some such shit and to those who can... well, they get the joke. He's yellow on the outside and white on the inside. It's pretty ironic that it actually is symbolic of his heritage, because he literally just has 'banana' tattooed on his arm.

Grantaire gets his second tattoo at nineteen and it's a sleeve that took him almost a year to save up for. It starts under the banana and goes down to his forearm, and then at least people are staring at the jungle scene with the quirky monkeys doing ridiculous things. They ask him what it stands for and he smirks and says it's an ongoing joke and almost none of them are staring at the small puncture marks in his elbow anymore.

It takes four sessions to ink and colour and after that, Grantaire is a little bit addicted to tattoos. It's better than being addicted to cocaine. (He still is though.)

He starts collecting tattoos after major life events like other people collect postcards from interesting holidays, because the pain and the buzz remind him he's still alive. Maybe it's because of that, Grantaire never really remembers when his soulmate tattoo arrives. It's just there one day, on a neat little band around his thigh almost like a garter line. It's smooth script and after a lot of neck bending and contorting, he figures out what song it's from. Grantaire knows the lyrics, of course, and that's comforting, at least, since he kind of gets a lot of grey skies. He'd almost thought that he wasn't ever going to get one, because twenty-six is a bit old for that sort of thing.

He gets roped into this political group thing when Joly and Bossuet basically trick him into it because it turns out the meeting is in a pub and they've already got their pints when there's some blond walking around asking if everyone's here yet. Grantaire glares at them but Bossuet is mouthing something that had better be 'I'm buying the next round' and then his tattoo starts fucking itching, oh god not now, not here,  _please_ , and anyway. Grantaire stays.

The blond guy walks up to them and Joly and Bossuet both greet him with the cheer they greet Grantaire, which means that either he's a very good friend, or Grantaire doesn't mean as much to them as he thought he did, which wouldn't have surprised him either. He smiles and doesn't look straight past Grantaire and holds his hand out to shake. He has a very nice smile and he looks like he'd be gentle when they're alone.

"I'm Combeferre. You must be Grantaire."

Grantaire blinks, because he's fairly certain that his reputation has preceded him exactly never. "That was interesting. Can you read my mind? What am I thinking?"

Combeferre laughs, and it's a nice laugh. But there's nothing more than that after they shake hands and Grantaire mentally sighs. That would have been too easy. He never does get to hear what Combeferre thinks he's thinking, because someone else bursts in from a side room.

"Who's new? Do we have any new members here today?!" It's a young man, long hair carelessly tumbling around his face and a feverish look in his eyes.

In a manner similar to all people accustomed to frequenting new churches and having had the truly horrific experience of being singled out as a new member every single time, Grantaire sinks as far down as his chair as he can manage. But Joly, the traitor, is waving him over.

"Enjolras! We brought Grantaire, my friend we were telling you about?"

And then Enjolras is stalking towards them, murder and passion (but probably just murder) in his eyes and he's undoing the buttons of his shirt. Grantaire's brain gives up around then, because he's really not very accustomed to beautiful young men taking their clothes off in front of him in public.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of Grantaire's mind, he realises that his leg is going crazy. His tattoo is so itchy he could just rip through his jeans right now to scratch at it and all the magazines say that your souls resonate when they sense the proximity of their mate but none of them have ever said how fucking annoying it is.

"You," says Enjolras.

"Help," says Grantaire.

And then Enjolras has most of his shirt undone and he pulls back one side to reveal a gorgeous dusty pink nipple.

"Nrgh," says Grantaire. It actually takes him a moment to realise what he's being shown because his brain is still kind of caught on nipple, but he gets it then. He inhales a short, sharp breath. "Oh. That's... that's me."

Actually, it could be anyone. Like, for example, a person whose name actually starts with R. But Grantaire traces a gentle fingertip over the black letter etched just over Enjolras's heart, then the jagged line that follows it and the itching around his leg stops.

"Ahem," says Joly after a while. Grantaire and Enjolras both start, as if they're not entirely aware of how long they've been standing there just looking at each other.

"Right," says Enjolras, buttoning his shirt back up. "The meeting's about to start."

And well, that’s that.

Enjolras heads to the front of the room where he has a quick, hurried discussion with Combeferre and someone else with dark, shaggy hair. “Well, that’s interesting,” says Bossuet, which is the understatement of the  _century_ and Grantaire hits him for it. He grins.

“I’m too sober to deal with this,” says Grantaire, when he really means ‘tell me every single thing you know about Enjolras, right now you little shit’, and thankfully Bossuet is a good friend and gets the hint. He nudges Grantaire’s shoulder with his own.

“Why don’t you judge for yourself?” he murmurs. “Stay for the meeting.”

Grantaire isn’t entirely too sure what the meeting is about. He’s all over the place, his left leg jiggling with nerves. He tries to listen in, and then keeps finding that he’s missed whole minutes of speech as he gets distracted by the way Enjolras impatiently flicks long hair out of his face or the way he reaches his hand out to the side and Combeferre will slip a pen, a glass of water, a piece of paper into his hand without even looking. He drinks his beer a little too fast and forgets to order actual food to go with it. Joly keeps trying to simplify it for him but Enjolras keeps looking over at them and Joly hushes under the scrutiny.

The two hour meeting passes like unevenly dissolving acid and Grantaire’s ability to judge time flies out of the window but at least he’s now figured out that Enjolras is, at least, not for raising his taxes, cutting his wage or taking away his healthcare. If anything, he swings a little bit too much in the opposite direction.

“ _Really_?” asks Grantaire incredulously when Enjolras is apparently considering storming the parliamentary buildings when they’re in session. It comes out louder than he meant it to, because then Enjolras is looking over at him.

“Grantaire, put that drink down,” says Enjolras. “You can’t just drink because because you want to run away.”

“I can so,” he mutters. God, Grantaire wants to know how Enjolras knew that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“But I see your point. Accomplishing anything will be difficult, so we have to consider –” and with that, Enjolras is back to his speech.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Grantaire grumbles, and drains his drink rebelliously. He really  _shouldn’t_ have done that, because now the beer is sloshing around in his stomach.

The group fades into good-natured bantering as they wrap up, and Grantaire wonders how long it is socially acceptable to wait before going over to Enjolras. Enjolras is obviously trying to consider the same thing because he keeps talking to other people but he is, very clearly, edging his way back towards Grantaire.

“What did you think?” asks Joly.

“He’s very pretty?” asks Grantaire, because he… he doesn’t know.

Bossuet snorts.

“So,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire looks up. “I didn’t – that was a bad – Hello. I’m Enjolras.”

“Grantaire,” says Grantaire. “Nice to meet you.” He can do pleasantries.

“Do you mind if we talk alone?”

“Probably not,” says Grantaire, and it’s not until Enjolras gives him a confused look that he realises that didn’t make complete sense.

They end up at the back of the pub, near the toilets, and Grantaire kind of has this urge to touch Enjolras’s hair – so he does. He might be a little more drunk than he was planning to be. Enjolras gives him another strange look but lets Grantaire wind blond hair into curls around his fingers. “What did you think of the meeting?”

“A little too distracted by the hot leader in red to focus too much on it,” admits Grantaire and Enjolras looks torn between annoyed and flattered.

“You’ll just have to come to the next one and concentrate properly.”

Grantaire laughs. “You’re good. Nice try.”

“So you won’t come back?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Enjolras watches him for a long moment and Grantaire does the same, cataloguing the dusty eyelashes as they blink, the considering press of his lips, the way he’s leaning toward Grantaire so Grantaire can still reach his hair.

Enjolras licks his lips, looks like he’s considering what he’s about to say. “On November 18th. What... happened?”

“Why?” It’s Grantaire’s turn to give Enjolras a strange look because that’s one of the dates he does remember but he has no idea how  _Enjolras_ knows.

“It’s when my tattoo appeared.”

Grantaire glances down at where he knows Enjolras’s tattoo is. There’s a whole other story there but Grantaire doesn’t tell this one, not even to alarmingly handsome supposed soulmates. He says simply, “I didn’t die.”

Enjolras blinks, touches his tattoo. Clears his throat. “Okay, well, after the meetings, we normally stay and have dinner here, if you’d like to stay?”

“I probably should eat something,” Grantaire admits.

Dinner proves that these meetings really isn’t like church (and thank god for that) because almost everyone stays to just hang out instead of scurrying away as soon as possible. Joly must sense that Grantaire really is out of it, because he’s actually ordered for Grantaire by the time he and Enjolras are walking back towards them and is waving the wooden spoon with the order number to prove it.

“Oh,” says Enjolras just as they reach where the others are pushing together several tables to make room for them all, “what’s my tattoo? If it’s not too rude to ask.”

And in the future, Grantaire will look back on this moment, and have literally no idea what compelled him to do it, but he pulls up his right sleeve to reveal his tattoos and points at a random monkey holding a banana. “This one.” He squints, and then points at a different one swinging by its tail. “Or possibly this one?”

The young man the other side of Combeferre lets out a helplessly loud snort, and Enjolras narrows his eyes. Grantaire thinks he’s blown it – that was supposed to be a serious question, wasn’t it? – until Enjolras says, “It does have my eyebrows.”

Grantaire laughs.

“Banana?” says one of the others, and Grantaire looks at him inquisitively. “I’m sorry, just – did you know? You have –”

“Oh,” says Grantaire. “Yeah. It’s deliberate.”

“Oh my god, Marius, you can’t just ask people why they’re not white,” says Joly with a straight face, and because they are massive arseholes, Grantaire and Bossuet find themselves cackling themselves silly as everyone else looks on in complete confusion.

Food orders arrive at some point in that, and conversation breaks down in favour of figuring out which plate goes to whom, and Grantaire finds himself looking approvingly down at a steak pie.

“Is it a secret?” asks Enjolras in a low voice, somehow managing to squash himself in next to Grantaire. He’s about 80% sure Bossuet had been there a moment ago. “Do you not want to show me?”

“What, you don’t believe you’re a tiny monkey in my life?”

Enjolras looks like he’s trying to figure out if he’s being played, so Grantaire takes pity on him. Sort of. “Why don’t you guess?”

“What?”

Grantaire peels off his t-shirt. (Marius chokes on his avocado wrap. The boy-next-to-Combeferre whistles. Enjolras does neither of these things. Grantaire is a little disappointed.) “I have a lot of tattoos. I mean, you should see me with my trousers down,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at Enjolras because he’s still pleasantly buzzed and his soulmate doesn’t seem like a proper git and really he’s sitting in the middle of a pub with his shirt off so he might as well be salacious about it. “See if you can guess.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes to examine Grantaire’s chest, the eastern dragons, one across each collarbone and the pearl in the middle, the monkey jungle down his sleeve, the hyper-realistic zip that runs from under his arm to where the zipper rests on his hip, and those are just the main ones. Grantaire’s regretting this already, a little bit, because he’s not quite sure he can deal with this much scrutiny.

“This might take a while,” says Enjolras, and he looks pleased about that for some reason.

“You should come round to mine and take your time,” says Grantaire, smiling ridiculously.

“I’d like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire really does have a lot of tattoos. He also has a lot of stories, a lot of persistent habits and an absolutely shittonne of insecurities. But the tattoos are the things that Enjolras can see, can touch, and Grantaire likes it that way. He feels a bit like Scheherazade and somewhere along the line, it becomes a bit of a Thing for the two of them.

Grantaire comes along to meetings and he has never felt more like a student in his life, exc ept now he’s one of those disruptive students in the back corner, sucking everyone else around them into a vortex of rowdiness and inattention, or possibly skepticism and disbelief. Sometimes he keeps his opinions to himself and just _radiates_ his amusement, and other times he leans over to Bossuet or Joly and whispers something in their ears that makes them laugh and whisper back, and yet other times he actually speaks up and point out why That Won’t Work.

Sometimes Enjolras has an answer, and sometimes he’s so railroaded by the interruption that he just glares back, and the words, “Yes it will!” burst out of him.

Grantaire stares for a moment, and then erupts into laughter. “You can’t make it work by force of will alone, Enjolras. Though I admit, both your force and your will are quite impressive.”

Afterwards they stay for food at the pub and Grantaire chitchats with Enjolras’s friends, fast becoming his friends, and at some point sidles over to Enjolras. One of them probably mutters, “Want to come over?” to the other, usually Enjolras if Grantaire hasn’t been too disruptive and more often Grantaire, sheepishly, when he realises he might have been.

And Grantaire always accepts, has started leaving his Tuesday and Thursday evenings free deliberately for this. They talk about everything from modern art to classical music to what Bahorel did this weekend and Enjolras subtly tries and gets Grantaire to consider revolution as a viable means of overthrowing a government at least three times in the conversation and Grantaire sees how quickly he can spot Enjolras trying to slide the conversation that way.

At some point, usually when they’re sitting together on the sofa, Enjolras asks softly, “Tell me about another one?”

And Grantaire will pick a tattoo, and tell Enjolras a story. It isn’t always a _truthful_ story, but it’s always an interesting one. It’s a sort of test for both of them, he thinks. Enjolras gets better at spotting the little embellishments that Grantaire adds, but more importantly, he gets better at spotting Grantaire’s downwards spirals when the stories become a little too dark, a little too bitter. And Enjolras will slip his finger into one of Grantaire’s curls and give it a light tug because that’s his idea of physical affection and tell him to talk about his monkeys. The monkeys all have cheerful stories, and Grantaire’s told about six different tales for each of them and Enjolras is trying to work out which bits are true.

But the point is that Grantaire generally likes talking about his tattoos, and Enjolras likes it when he likes talking about them. Grantaire is talking about the ship in a bottle on his shoulder blade when the question just seemingly slips out.

“Is there a reason,” asks Enjolras, “why you won’t tell me?” It’s been four months. Four months of not-quite dates and stories.

Grantaire stops in the middle of his story, something about pirates. He falters, unsure, and he sees the moment Enjolras regrets asking that, because his face twitches. Grantaire didn’t mean to make him react that way, he was just surprised by the question. His leg starts jiggling, the way it does when he wants another drink and is battling it out with himself about how soon he can justify getting another one and that just makes Enjolras frown and it’s become this odd sort of reaction where they’re both panicking for causing bad reactions from the other person.

“I thought– Why didn’t you ask earli– no, never mind.” Grantaire cuts himself off. He inhales slowly. Exhales all in a rush. He’d thought Enjolras liked the stories. But now, he’s wondering if Enjolras is just fed up, just wants to know or doesn’t care either way. “There’s no point if I just tell you, is there?”

Enjolras frowns hard, and Grantaire reaches out to tuck his falling hair behind one ear. Enjolras shakes him off impatiently. “What do you mean, there’s no point?”

Grantaire looks past Enjolras’s shoulder as he tries to formulate the words. “If you know what my tattoo of you is, it’ll affect you. You’ll try to live up to it, try to prove it right. That’s not the way it goes; you’re supposed to represent the tattoo, the tattoo isn’t supposed to represent you.”

Enjolras nods like he’s conceding that point. But – “But you know what mine is of you.”

Grantaire smiles, a habitual pulling of his cheeks rather than anything genuine. “I already know what that means though.”

Enjolras obviously doesn’t understand. Grantaire traces where he knows Enjolras has the black R under his t-shirt and Enjolras reaches out to smooth his hand down Grantaire’s arm, reassure him.

“It means I’m alive,” says Grantaire, but even though his shoulders move up, then down, he hasn’t managed to shrug that off lightly. His voices starts out quiet, trembling, but it crescendos quickly enough. “I mean, you know what ECG lines are. That’s what it means. It means I am still alive to be your soulmate, as in, literally I am not dead and some days, Enjolras, that is the absolute best you’re going to get from me. I’m _still not dead_.”

Grantaire is trembling and his eyes aren’t focussing and Enjolras pulls him forward, wraps his arms around Grantaire’s broad shoulders and lets Grantaire claw his hands into his t-shirt and cling on. Grantaire’s not crying, but he thinks it might because he seems to have forgotten how rather than that he doesn’t want to do it.

“You know,” says Enjolras, eventually, in an attempt at casual, “I never put much store in soulmate tattoos.”

Grantaire frowns. “But you’re the one who came up to me.”

“It wasn’t exactly a light tingle. My entire chest was itching so badly I wanted to claw it off.” Grantaire remembers the sensation. “Anyway, that’s not what I mean. I think the problem with having your tattoo before you’ve met the person gives you preconceptions. You read into whatever your tattoo is and you think about what sort of person your soulmate is and you’ve projected all sorts of expectations onto them. Even after you’ve met, you’re trying to twist everything they do into this mould you already have of them and just – you never get a chance just to get to know each other.”

“What did you fantasise about me?” asks Grantaire, quirking an eyebrow, trying not to think of how many times he’s traced the words on his thigh and mouthed them to himself late at night.

“Well,” says Enjolras, proving once and for all that he does have a sense of humour and it is every inch as dark as Grantaire’s, “I knew you were alive.”

Grantaire bursts out into a bark of laughter.

“And really,” says Enjolras, “that’s all I need you to be.” Grantaire sobers, and presses his forehead to Enjolras’s. Enjolras smiles uncertainly, the way he does any time Grantaire initiates anything more intense than a bit of light snuggling. Enjolras parts with affection uneasily, not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he doesn’t feel like he knows how to. It had taken Grantaire a while to work out the difference.

And so Grantaire makes a point of holding hands often or occasional kisses in public, coaxing Enjolras into these things until Enjolras no longer smiles gratefully every time he does it. His next words come out quiet, uncertain. “Am I living up to mine?” He shakes himself, presses a finger over Enjolras’s lips before he can answer. “No, wait. Don’t answer that. I can’t say all that and then ask you to just tell me.”

  
He wants to know though, so badly.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time they fall into bed together, it’s after another meeting. Combeferre mentions that he’s thinking of getting a tattoo and asks Grantaire for advice on artists. “What kind of tattoo? Do you have a style in mind, or–?”

“Watercolour,” says Combeferre.

Grantaire lights up. “Oooh, good choice. I have one of those.”

“You do?” asks Enjolras, looking up from his food. “I’ve never seen it.” Grantaire waggles his eyebrows, and Enjolras blushes.

The conversation continues, buoyed along by Grantaire’s insistence that Combeferre go to Grantaire’s regular artist, and Enjolras’s comment goes mostly forgotten until Grantaire goes over to Enjolras’s place after the pub and Enjolras asks, “How many tattoos have I still not seen?”

“Four or five?” Grantaire grins. Enjolras has seen him in shorts – it’s been too hot for that not to be possible – but Grantaire only has two distinct tattoos on his lower legs: an asymmetric tangle of thorny roses around both shins and tiny little Hermes wings on his ankles.

Enjolras fixes him with a wondering look. “You have a _lot_ of tattoos.”

“It’s addictive,” says Grantaire. “I’ve been thinking about adding another one.”

“Oh? What would you get?”

Grantaire slips his arm around Enjolras’s shoulders, tugs him until he’s half on top of Grantaire’s chest. “A lifesize portrait of your face across my stomach.” The look of horror that Enjolras gives him sends Grantaire into a fit of laughter.

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“It would have to be upside down,” says Grantaire between giggles. “So it’s the right way up when I look down at it.”

Enjolras pinches his arm, and then hurriedly rubs it better when Grantaire yelps. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” says Grantaire, leaning forward to kiss Enjolras. “I will be entirely serious from now on.” He kisses Enjolras again, slow and wet until Enjolras hums into it, curling down onto his chest for a better angle. “Maybe you should get one. Something all geometric angles and bright colours. Maybe here,” he says, sliding his hand up under Enjolras’s shirt to press his palm over Enjolras’s side, where he’s most sensitive. Enjolras shivers, and nuzzles his nose into Grantaire’s stubble to watch Grantaire’s hands play over his skin.

“Or maybe here,” says Grantaire, moving his hands around so that he’s rubbing his fingertips over the soft skin where the promise of love handles lie. “One on each side, matching tattoos. Or one of those lower back ones, so I could see it every time your shirt rode up.” He grabs Enjolras’s arse, and squeezes; Enjolras squeaks, and bites Grantaire’s ear in return.

“That,” he says primly, “is not my lower back.”

“No,” agrees Grantaire, pulling him in so that his crotch slides up the length of Grantaire’s thigh. From this close, Grantaire can see Enjolras’s eyes dilate, and the way his lip trembles.

Enjolras takes his revenge for earlier, sneaking his hand down Grantaire’s trousers to grab a handful of his arse, pulling himself flush against Grantaire’s body. A stab of desire roils through Grantaire’s gut. Then Enjolras moves his hips back and forth a few times, rutting against Grantaire’s leg. “Show me,” he says coyly. “Please?” And Grantaire can’t help but moan out loud because dear god, that is hot.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” says Grantaire after an embarrassingly long time spend just staring at Enjolras with glazed eyes. He hitches Enjolras’s leg over his hips and bodily lifts him up, walking them both over to the bedroom with Enjolras’s erection poking into Grantaire’s stomach. He drops Enjolras back on the bed lightly, loving the way he just bounces a few times and then props himself up on his elbows. Grantaire shuffles forwards until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Enjolras’s knees spread either side of his legs.

Grantaire makes the show a good one. He crosses his arms so he can peel the t-shirt up from the bottom even though that means he has to really squeeze it past his biceps; it’s absolutely not an accident, because that means flexing his biceps a few more times than necessary to work it off. He undoes his jeans buttons and leaves them like that, shaking his hips ridiculously until Enjolras laughs and the jeans shake down his legs.

Propping one knee on the bed, just close enough to graze Enjolras’s erection, Grantaire shucks his jeans the rest of the way and tips over to give Enjolras a kiss before pushing himself back upright. Enjolras licks his lips, flicks a look down at Grantaire’s crotch like he can’t help it; when his eyes meet Grantaire’s again, he’s blushing slightly.

Grantaire can feel his grin stretching across his face; he starts to bite his lip, and then thinks _fuck it_ because there is no reason Enjolras shouldn’t know that he makes Grantaire feel ridiculously flattered. He hooks his thumb into the waistband of his briefs and slowly inches them down, revealing that the little black bumps that appear above the waistline are actually two curlesque f-holes that stretch down into the v of his groin. Enjolras makes a stifled little groan, and goes a little more pink.

It looks like Enjolras has forgotten about trying not to look, because he’s literally just staring at Grantaire’s crotch as Grantaire slowly, so slowly, peels his underwear off. Grantaire knows this, because he in return is staring at Enjolras’s face, warm arousal building in his stomach as Enjolras’s mouth goes slack and his breath goes heavy.

Grantaire is sporting a semi by the time his cock pops free, bobbing a little; Grantaire watches Enjolras’s eyes follow it up and down, tongue lightly slipping out as if he wants to lick it. Grantaire gives up right there, and leaves his underwear stretched tight around his thighs as he scrabbles forward to catch the slick slip of Enjolras’s tongue in his mouth. Enjolras groans, and arches up into him.

They don’t even manage to get Enjolras undressed. Grantaire still has his socks on, which is distinctly Not Sexy, but Enjolras rolls forward and pulls Grantaire’s underwear off properly using his teeth, which makes Grantaire groan at the sight. Enjolras kisses his way back up Grantaire’s leg starting at the ankle and moving up his calf, and then the inside of his thigh.

Enjolras fixates on Grantaire’s erection as if he’s mesmerised, licking his lips and leaving his mouth slightly parted. Granaire reaches down, and slides a finger around those pink lips. “You’re drooling a bit,” he says, voice rough because he’s not teasing, he’s _in awe_.

“Pavlovian reaction,” murmurs Enjolras, which makes no sense but it’s not like Grantaire has the time to think about that because then Enjolras is taking Grantaire into his mouth. He swallows just the tip, using his tip to explore the head of Grantaire’s cock and sucking lightly. Enjolras seems to have no interest in deepthroating; instead, he moves up and down the first few inches, occasionally sliding Grantaire against the velvet softness of the inside of his cheek and lightly scraping his teeth down Grantaire’s length.

The first time it happens, Grantaire sucks air in from between his teeth, every muscle in his body tensing up. “Holy shiiiiiit.” His hands automatically drop onto Enjolras’s head, his fingers twisting Enjolras’s hair into knots. By the time Enjolras does it for the fourth time, Grantaire manages to let his breath out with a full body shudder and has to force himself to stop clenching at Enjolras’s hair, and Enjolras just goddamn smirks at him.

“I’m gonna –” says Grantaire, choking on his words and it’s both a relief and a disappointment when Enjolras pulls off before he can come.

“Not yet,” says Enjolras, pulling Grantaire forward onto the bed. “I want you to fuck me.”

“So demanding,” manages Grantaire as his dick twitches and his entire body begs for release. It’s awkward crawling up the bed with his boner swinging back at forth but Enjolras eyes it smugly so Grantaire suffers the indignity of it until he has Enjolras backed half against the headboard, reaching up for a kiss.

His mouth tastes of Grantaire and his legs part before Grantaire can even touch them; his cock’s mostly hard, curving to one side of his stomach and he’s looking at Grantaire like Grantaire hung the sun which Grantaire only knows because that’s the same expression Grantaire looks at Enjolras with, and this whole thing is just ridiculous. Grantaire buries his face into Enjolras’s pec, pressing a kiss against the tattoo there to ground himself.

“Hey,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire peeks up, his eyelashes grazing against Enjolras’s skin. Enjolras is smiling down at him, bright and wonderful and seriously aroused. “Hey,” he says hoarsely, but it’s a good sort of hoarse, he thinks.

“Fuck me,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire swallows. “Yeah, okay,” he says, because he’s hardly going to say no.

Enjolras treats Grantaire like he’s a virgin even when Enjolras is the one propped up by pillows, his legs hooked over Grantaire’s hips, panting as Grantaire manages to slide a second finger into his arse.

He’s gentle and patient and guides Grantaire on where to touch him, how often and says yes so many times Grantaire’s actually almost starting to believe that Enjolras really likes all these places Grantaire’s kissing him.

Enjolras is tight, almost like – “Never done this before,” says Enjolras, smiling crookedly when Grantaire is fingering him, and Grantaire jerks in surprise, accidentally sliding his fingers another inch in.

“ _Fuck_.” Enjolras’s back arches and he gasps, hands fisting into the pillow.

“Shit,” says Grantaire. “Sorry, sorry.” He slides his fingers out as Enjolras’s body contracts around him.

“Do that again,” says Enjolras, gasping.

 _Oh_. Grantaire brushes his thumb over Enjolras’s cheekbone and lines his other hand up and slides two fingers in deeper, harder than before. Enjolras writhes around him, heels digging into Grantaire’s back as Grantaire rotates his hand, stretching Enjolras out.

Shaking hair out of his eyes, Enjolras bites out, “Fuck me, Grantaire.”

“You’re still so tight,” says Grantaire breathlessly.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras, smiling helplessly, a blush spreading across his cheeks as if this is anything to be embarrassed about, “Exactly.”

“Okay,” whispers Grantaire and his hand is trembling when he lines his cock up. He looks into Enjolras’s eyes and he’s judged this right, he thinks, when he slams his entire length into Enjolras in one quick movement.

Enjolras cries out, his legs spasming and his body clenching around Grantaire and god, Grantaire doesn’t know whether to pull out and comfort him or do it again. He does both. He pulls out. “God, Enjolras,” says Grantaire, and slams himself in again, going hard and fast straight out of the gate.

Enjolras looks like he’s in pain, his body scrabbling to pull away, except he’s already backed against the wall and Grantaire is holding him in place. He’s tight and hot and _squirmy_ under Grantaire and he keeps panting, “Yes, yes,” under his breath until his words slip and slide into incoherent noises.

God, Grantaire feels like a virgin right now. Seriously, he should have that song tattooed around his leg because he feels shiny and new and frankly unbearably smug that Enjolras looks well on his way to passing out from arousal. He doesn’t, though he does flap weakly at Grantaire’s arm until Grantaire moves his hand to wrap his coarse fingers around Enjolras’s cock to get him off. It’s strange, because the actions – it almost feels like a quick shag, a one-night stand, the frantic harshness of what they’re doing, except this is Enjolras and Enjolras is anything but. He comes explosively, across Grantaire’s hand and stomach, with a shout.

Grantaire starts to slow down until Enjolras gasps, “No, keep going.” He’s a soft tangle of limbs sprawled out, shuddering with each stroke of Grantaire’s hand and Grantaire just stares at him in disbelief. Enjolras slumps down so he can turn and press his face into the pillow and says again in the smallest of whispers, “Fuck me.”

Grantaire wants to ask ‘are you sure?’ just for the delaying time but Enjolras blindly gropes for his hand and presses a tender kiss to the back of it and Grantaire’s stomach lurches in a way that’s nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with – love. Shit. He leans over Enjolras and runs a hand down his side. “Hard and fast,” he promises, and does.

It’s obvious that Enjolras is really, really sensitive after he’s come because he’s a whimpering, wrecked mess on the bed when Grantaire build up his rhythm again, but he’s too tired to do anything but lie there and twitch and moan wetly as Grantaire pushes his legs up so he can rub against Enjolras’s prostate with every thrust of his hips. Grantaire strokes down the length of Enjolras’s soft cock a couple of times; he keens, high-pitched and desperate

and Grantaire just has to lean over and kiss the sound out of his mouth.

“God,” says Grantaire into Enjolras’s mouth. “You are so hot. Gonna come. I’m – gonna –” Enjolras just shudders underneath him, a full body movement, and stifles a long groan into a pillow as Grantaire spills into Enjolras’s arse. Grantaire swallows, and leans his forehead against Enjolras’s. “Wow.”

Grantaire slumps over onto the bed, face pressed into Enjolras’s shoulder. It takes a while – an embarrassingly long while actually – before he peels himself off Enjolras and asks hesitantly, “Was that – did you… Was that a second orgasm?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras, sounding terribly satisfied and more than a little sex-drunk.

Grantaire considers it. “I didn’t know you could even do that.”

“Monsieur Grantaire,” says Enjolras, “I am a man of many talents. And orgasms.” Post-coital Enjolras is apparently like a kitten. He’s very fond of lying sleepily around and occasionally smushing his face into Grantaire’s neck – and Grantaire is not complaining – but at some point he also does decide that enough is enough and he wants to get up and explore. Explore Grantaire’s body, that is.

He’s been nuzzling his face through Grantaire’s body hair, which is something Grantaire thought he’d find awkward because he doesn’t really have a lot of body hair and what he does have is patchy, but he can’t find it in himself to complain when Enjolras noses down his treasure trail. “You should introduce me,” says Enjolras, propping his chin on Grantaire’s hip.

“Introduce you?”

“To all the other facets of Grantaire,” says Enjolras, trailing one finger across one of the f-hole tattoos and watching with interest as Grantaire wriggles a little.

“God, you make them sound like Horcruxes,” says Grantaire with a huff.

“Shhh,” says Enjolras, “I’m concentrating. Roll over.”

Obligingly, Grantaire does, peeking back over his shoulder to watch Enjolras catalogue the remaining tattoos he’s never seen. And by catalogue, he actually means that Enjolras is drifting soft fingertips over them all. Grantaire actually sees the moment Enjolras reads the soulmate tattoo around his thigh, considers it, and then dismisses it. Grantaire bites his lip; he’s not sure what his face looks like at that moment, but Enjolras is too busy concentrating to see it, at least.

Grantaire also does see the moment when Enjolras sees the handprint that goes around his right hip, the fingers stretching out to wrap around half his arse, because his eyes widen and his breath catches and oh, Enjolras thinks _that’s_ it. That tat is actually one of Grantaire’s favourites but Enjolras has obviously taken it some other way because he looks strangely unhappy about it.

Rolling back onto his back, Grantaire is about to tell him that’s not it, he doesn’t have to look so freaked out, when Enjolras says something instead. “So. Go on. Introduce me to all these,” says Enjolras, looking up and smiling at him. His smile is a little too wide; his eyes are a little too glassy. “These ones first,” he says, voice softer now as he traces one of the f-holes with the pad of one finger.

Grantaire shudders. Despite his unease, he is _really_ sensitive there and his body reacts accordingly. “What can I say? Got them because they make my abs look _great_. They don’t all have some great deeper meaning.”

Enjolras nods, his hair curling across his shoulder and tickling Grantaire’s leg. He scrapes his teeth down Grantaire’s hip, which is where he has a fantastic multi-coloured phoenix done in watercolours. “This one?”

Grantaire wonders vaguely if Enjolras is going to insist on getting to know each of his tattoos with his mouth. It’s looking more likely, and his body is _very_ happy with that idea even if it’s too tired to physically show it. “Um. Graduation present to myself, except I didn’t have any idea what I wanted, so I asked Fantine – my artist – she could do whatever she wanted. Wasn’t really expecting this.”

“No wonder you said Combeferre should go see her,” murmurs Enjolras, tracing the wings with the very tip of his tongue. It’s a soft, teasing touch, but what affects Grantaire more is the adorable way Enjolras is looking down at his tongue, almost crossing his eyes as he tries to see.

Only when he seems satisfied does Enjolras move onto the next one. “This?” asks Enjolras, hooking a hand under Grantaire’s knees so he can read the entire lyric going around his leg.

“You know the song?” asks Grantaire. Enjolras thinks about it, then nods. “I get a lot of grey skies,” says Grantaire, shrugging one shoulder. Enjolras nods again, and it’s – it’s unnerving how much he’s not judging Grantaire for anything. That’s such a rare occurrence for him.

Enjolras gets to the handprint last. “What about this one?” he asks, his eyes subdued. He reaches out like he wants to press his hand over it, but thinks better of it. “It looks – like a brand.”

“Hey,” says Grantaire, pulling him up. “C’mere.” He drags Enjolras up until Enjolras is lying across his chest, a warm and comforting weight. He takes Enjolras’s hand in his and guides it to his hip, pressing his hand into the handprint until Enjolras is basically grabbing his arse. Enjolras looks up at him, confused, until he sees the grin on Grantaire’s face and the way his eyes crinkle upwards.

“Wha–”

“I really, really like being grabbed like this,” says Grantaire in a low voice, as husky and overly seductive as he can make it. Relief and shock makes Enjolras slump forward until he laughs, muffled, into Grantaire’s chest. His fingers flex around Grantaire’s arse, and Grantaire hums contentedly.

Enjolras swallows. “Okay. Okay. I will remember that for future.” He slides off Grantaire’s chest onto his side and props himself on his elbow. Mirroring him, Grantaire leans forward for a quick, sloppy kiss until Grantaire feels the tension seep out of his jaw. “So,” says Enjolras eventually. “I don’t know. I have now see all your tattoos, and you really do have a lot, and I still can’t figure it out.”

Grantaire takes pity on him, because two minutes ago, Enjolras had been worried that he – what, was overbearing? Controlling? _Abusive_? Grantaire doesn’t know and he’s going to ask Enjolras about it, but not right now. Right now, he props his leg up and grabs Enjolras’s hand and drags his finger around his thigh. “This is it,” he says.

“Oh,” says Enjolras. He blinks and ducks down to read it like he might have mis-read it the first time. “But the first time we met, I – well. I – _really_?” The last word comes out small, as if he doesn’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “Really. What, you don’t think so?” He sits up and frowns, because he’s not sure what might have given Enjolras the impression that he was anything less than absolutely perfect. He’s sure that he’s always – well, perhaps Enjolras was just bad at interpreting feelings, and in any case Grantaire isn’t always the best at – Grantaire stops his train of thought. It doesn’t really matter how Enjolras came to his conclusion but Grantaire resolves to do better in the future.

He leans over, and kisses Enjolras softly, and traces the R over Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras looks down at the action. “You’re all I need you to be,” says Enjolras uncertainly as Grantaire pulls him into his arms. “I don’t expect –”

“And so are you,” says Grantaire, his voice barely a murmur but firm as he kisses Enjolras again, and again, and again until a reluctant smile quivers on his lips. “' _You are my sunshine'_ ,” he says, and it sounds a lot like ‘I love you’.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon Grantaire is [Lee Min Ho](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fXy1XgFuKM/UYTVhnWCzHI/AAAAAAAAA6o/y02NfxKgJlA/s1600/lee-min-ho.jpg) and yes, I have literally only ever seen him in Boys Over Flowers.
> 
> This is [Enjolras's tattoo](http://i.imgur.com/A0PxIk8.jpg) (picture nsfw).
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com)!


End file.
